


Stranded in Fantastical Hell

by CalicoNekoChi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Boat crash, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Trapped on an island, Unintentional Love, working together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoNekoChi/pseuds/CalicoNekoChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way to a G8 meeting on a soon-to-be-open resort island, the personified G8 nations find themselves in sticky situation: their cruise ship sinks and the eight of them end up stranded on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Can they get along enough to survive and get off?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranded in Fantastical Hell

            A cruise, a break; that was what the countries of the G8 had been told this would be. The latest world conference, sponsored by a few American companies, was to be held on an island in the Pacific Ocean. It was to commemorate the opening of a resort in the coming weeks. Naturally, none of the personified nations questioned the ability to relax while they “worked out” (otherwise known as arguing) the problems their world was currently facing, and the solutions each could present.

            On the cruise ship, the first meeting was scheduled for five in the evening, so everyone could have dinner together and discuss after a day of stress relief and relaxation. All, of course, took advantage of it… Well, with the exclusion of workaholic Ludwig Beilschmidt. He remained in his room, attempting to get a handle on his stance for the latter meeting. Since no one could get along, and he knew this well, he’d need to be ready to take immediate charge of things. Now, that was the plan. And it worked until around ten in the morning when his long-time friend, Feliciano Vargas, awoke.

            The northern Italian wasn’t short, but he wasn’t exactly tall either. His skin was a light olive with hardly a scar in sight since appearance was so important to the trendy young man. That skin tone effortlessly made his auburn hair looked gorgeous, even with that peculiar curl bouncing on the left side of his head. Feliciano was a rather joyous and hyper man, his (normally closed) honey-brown eyes always conveying those emotions. But, they also held something much deeper, a philosophical, and dominating side that only his older brother, Lovino, had seen before during the Unification Wars in their country. To this day, The Italian Republic was a full-fledged, independent country, separated by the different cultures of their people more loyal to their own homes than their country.

“Luddy!” Said Italian called, bouncing down the hallway of the ship. The ocean rocked it every so often; today seemed to hold a coming storm and none paid much mind to it thus far. Down the red hall came the stern German’s “In here” despite his own reluctance to answer the hyperactive coward. Feliciano practically ran into the room and pounced onto Ludwig’s perfectly made bed; his face nuzzling into the soft pillows.

“Why are you hiding in here?”

“I have a lot of work to do.”

“But the meeting isn’t until this evening! Luddy, play with me, I’m bored!”

            Ludwig sighed. His piercing blue eyes looked over at the northern Italian. It made Feliciano stop his escapade and sit up immediately, like a good little solider. The German had been his best friend for many years, but he was also desperately afraid of his haphazard anger. He couldn’t help but admire the strength Ludwig emitted though. He was strong, brave, and fearless, always by the books and orderly. His body was rippling with muscles and skin rather pale from his northern home. That skin tone was a perfect setting for his lemon blond hair, ever so brilliantly slicked back to perfection. This was truly Feliciano’s handsome (and rather awkward) best friend, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Feliciano…” The previously described German sighed. He would have ran a hand through his hair too, but it messing up that perfect do was unacceptable. “I have work to do, if I don’t prepare for the meeting then we’ll be more off track than usual. Go find someone else to pester.” It was as nice as he could put it. Until he actually had to kick Feliciano out for continuing to bother him about playing football and such.

Damn, he **LOVED** his football.

Feliciano cried a little after being (literally) yelled out of the room, whining in his native tongue as he went down the hall. Some other yelling distracted him though, causing him to stop yelling and start investigating.

And who else but the infamous frenemies would be fighting by this early point? Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland were, once again, arguing over nothing (as it would seem). Alfred F. Jones, Arthur’s “little brother,” was trying to moderate and get them to stop their pointless bickering. He seemed in a hurry though, obviously wanting to enjoy his time before the meeting. Alfred appeared to be only nineteen years of age, his hair a dirty blond and eyes a cerulean blue. He was a handsome young man, skin a nice tan complexion, body of a stereotypical, high school jock… He was just a little on the obnoxious side. Yes ladies and gents. Alfred had a noticeable hero-complex, a boisterous laugh, and was one of the few nations to wear glasses, whom he dubbed to be the nation’s death region of Texas. Most people couldn’t even bother themselves to be polite to the man who tried too hard to please others and himself; other people had a hard time with trying not to baby him too much.

            Like Arthur Kirkland himself. Said Englishman (also British, since he represented both England and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland) had an insecurity issue. He teetered between being pissed off at Alfred, depending on him, being a dear friend, hating him, and being uncertain on why he still saw his ex-little brother so fondly. The American was obviously oblivious to all of this! He chose a whale over the Englishman for Pete’s sake! Of course, Arthur would never admit that he was a little clingy, nor would he admit to his impulses and poor drinking habits. He was a self-proclaimed gentleman, and a former delinquent! His skin was pale and eyes a piercing emerald green, hair a light blond that was cut in a rather messy fashion. One thing that was entirely noticeable about this rather lanky man was his thick eyebrows, they seemed to take up a significant amount of his forehead.

            Everything that made Arthur who he was ended up as fair ammunition against him, at least in Francis’ gorgeous sky blue orbs. Most of Francis’ “beauty” was as self-proclaimed as Arthur being a gentleman; but there was a significant amount of truth to his egotistical tale. He had been the most powerful country in Europe for years (when the thought of their laughable navy was removed from the picture), which led to his over inflated opinion of himself. His hair was a flowing river of golden charm, eyes dotted with the stars of champagne and the tears of blood and loss. He wasn’t fairly tan, nor pale, just the right amount for him and his barely muscular body. Yes, Francis embodied the “pretty boy” stereotype… If the aspect of his forested chest, arms, legs, crot— etc. was excluded from the picture.

Yes, all of them were handsome men in their own rights.

But that wasn’t what drew dear Feliciano over to them.

            No, what drew him was how Francis and Arthur were rolling around on the floor, trying to choke the eternity out of one another. How Alfred kept saying things about how ridiculous it was for them to continue this fight. It always stopped Arthur a little, since he hated it when Alfred was acting more mature than he was, but Francis never stopped once… Until he saw his “petit ange,” Matthew Williams, leaving his room. All changed after that. Francis immediately pushed Arthur off and ran to the taller Canadian and his adorable polar bear (never ask how that bear was allowed on such an escapade, Matthew never left home without the little bear).

“Bonjour mon petit chou-chou, comment allez-vous~? [Hello my little cabbage head, how are you~?]” Francis cheered, immediately hugging the rather lanky man. Matthew hesitated in his answer, still rather groggy from his sleep. “..J-je suis bien Francis, merci. Et vous? […I-I’m well Francis, thank you. And you?]” It was nearly miraculous that the Canadian was even remembered! Normally, he embodied some invisible, good willed phantom.

But it was no wonder, sometimes. Matthew had an incredible army, amazing resources, and some of the nicest people around. He was just too nice and too often forgotten in the shadow of his irritating brother, Alfred. As we can recall, Alfred has a hero complex. Matthew had his own complex, because it seemed anyone in relation to Arthur developed one in time, it was a constantly-apologising-even-if-nothing-was-his-fault complex. He was a funny young man in that way, looking a hell of a lot like Alfred, but also like Francis as well. His hair was the same colour as Alfred’s (just a little more orange-y), as was his skin tone, and body structure. They could pass as twins, if the noticeable cowlick Alfred had and the elongated curl Matthew had (as well as clothing, personality, speech, etc.) were disregarded, as they usually were. He was just like a walking Alfred-clone to some, even his precious polar bear Kumajirou forgot about him constantly!

“Très bien, merci beaucoup! Maintenant, comment avez-vous fait dormir? Il est très important que vous dormiez bien, savez-vous. [Very well, thank you very much! Now, how did you sleep? It is very important that you sleep well, you know.]” Francis continued, contently speaking his native language. Matthew gladly responded, their conversation carrying on for some time as Feliciano stopped paying attention to them.

His focus went on the two English speakers who were finally walking off in the other direction, to the deck of the ship to be exact. Feliciano sighed a bit, still having no one to play with! He didn’t want to ask Francis since he was deep in a conversation he only scarcely understood; plus, Francis had a bad habit of doing things that confused him or just pushing him away when on his man-period (which sometimes seemed to last longer than even a woman’s did! …Most times it was just his sexual frustration getting to him though).

So, Feliciano continued his search like a good little adventurer. In his hands was a black and white football, him softly whimpering as he went down the hallway. It was really warm, which was something he was pretty accustomed to due to his Mediterranean home. But, all too suddenly, it got really cold and a soft, high pitched male’s voice, thick with a Russian accent came out of nowhere. “Fufufu~ Feliciano, why are you being sad?”

Hairs stood up on Feliciano’s neck in recollection of who was addressing him… None other than the “terrifying” Ivan Braginsky.  Under it all, Ivan was actually just a lonely child, who happened to look like a giant. He (aside from a certain Swede) was the tallest of the nations; he was “big boned” as he would claim, with rather muscle bound limbs. His hair was platinum blond, skin pale, and eyes a peculiar, but playful lavender. All of his life, Ivan had been bullied by other nations because he was a backwards place and easily beaten; except in his vicious winters where a man he called General Winter defended him fiercely. You see, it was because of this that he’d never truly learned the concepts of “right” and “wrong,” he was shy around people who weren't his friend but that side was never seen since everyone was a friend in his eyes.

No matter how obviously they were trying to avoid him, like little Feliciano right now.

            Poor Feliciano looked like he was about to faint! His closed eyes were filled with terror and body smaller trembling. Oh how badly he wanted to call out for Ludwig, or even for- “Feliciano-kun!” The Italian looked over with his tear pricked eyes to the shorter, Japanese man. His name was Honda Kiku (respectively). He was shorter than the others, hardly more than lanky, and rather pale. Kiku was a reversed man with near soulless brown eyes and straight black hair. Yet, despite how plain he seemed (or dubbed himself), he was still rather odd in his own ways… Like his highly advanced country, disdain for nudity, and general awkwardness.

            But when it came to friends, he’d protect them with his life. Kiku despised Ivan, for the Russo-Japanese war that left the glutton bankrupt and skyrocketed his country’s price on EVERYTHING. Yes, he still held a sour note, and would continue that way. “Kiku~” Ivan cheered, not seeming to notice said Japanese man’s resentment. Or the obvious katana at his waist. It was almost like he was ready to attack the tall Russian at any second, and he probably would have as well. “Ivan-san,” He began, rather apathetically. “I trust that you will be on your way?” As polite as possible… As polite as possible.

            And as calm as possible, since before Ivan could respond Poseidon decided to slam into the ship, thus slamming the trio into the red wall of the hallway. Screamed and cries were echoed from other passengers and staff, fear starting to erupt from the now dramatizing storm. Feliciano clung himself to Kiku, crying as the awkward man both tried to push him away and calm him in the same moment. This would have been easier if Poseidon didn't slam into the other side of the ship and slam both Feliciano and Kiku into Ivan, who fell to the floor. Ivan and Feliciano both let out a squeak, Kiku a grunt of frustration.

            The cruise ship continued to get slammed in Poseidon’s rough act, everyone getting rocked around the halls and rooms. On deck, where Arthur and Alfred had went, the two were unfortunately pummelled by water and wind, eventually falling into the salty ocean. Arthur thrashed about in panic, unable to swim. Alfred had fallen under, hardly able to get up before Arthur got whacked by some debris. He was a hero on this day, saving the Englishman by getting him out of the way of the ship that was slowly sinking into the depths.

            On board, panic was rising even more. Ludwig had ran from his room in search of Feliciano, who had gotten knocked out from the constant thrashing. Francis held onto Matthew in an attempt to protect him from whatever the hell was trying to kill them all.

 

            That day, the cruise ship went down with hundreds of staff and passenger’s, eight of them being nations headed simply for a conference. Many died from the storm, others were never heard from again. Alerts of what occurred were only heard in California, USA hours after it was already too late. Search parties were immediately sent out to try and salvage who and what they could of the wreckage… Yet, what happened to the beloved personified nations?

 

            “Ow….” Feliciano groaned softly, his head throbbing from whatever had knocked him out in the first place. The sun was warm but he was freezing from his soaked clothing. His breathing was heavy and laboured, mind racing as he tried to collect whatever he could of what had occurred. “Luddy…? Kiku….? Ciao…?” He murmured, barely lifting himself off of the sand. The ocean beat the shore behind him, a thick grove of tropical trees before him… No one was there.

He was stranded.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaruya does. I do not own any of the characters mentioned or the idea of them being on a deserted island. I own nothing in this except for how I actually wrote it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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